Sibling Rivalry
by Milwaukee Meg
Summary: Sherlock, John and Mycroft are in three-way relationship, as happy as they can be. But then the question arises - which Holmes gets to marry John? Humor, crack, romance!  Warnings: incest, slash.


Fill for this prompt:

J_ohn, Sherlock and Mycroft are in a three-way-relationship. They all love each other (though Sherlock and Mycroft are a bit special in showing their affection each other... bickering etc.) and it's hot and romantic and wonderful.__  
><em>_Until the realise that if something were to happen to John neither Sherlock nor Mycroft would have any rights to make decisions etc. unlike Sherlock and Mycroft who are brothers.__  
><em>_The big question therefore is: Who gets to marry (you know, civil partnership) John?_

WARNINGS: Incest, sexual content (no graphic sex, but many allusions and one naughty scene), some bad language

I have no excuse. I was always ashamed I wrote it... But the hell, Lestrade - trying - not - to - know, baffled John and stepford-wife!Sherlock wouldn't leave my brain. So, special delivery from my LJ...

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><p><strong>SIBLINGS RIVALRY<strong>

Lestrade has worked with Sherlock for a long time; therefore he wasn't really surprised when he came to 221B Baker Street with some new evidence, just to find two Holmeses at each other throats, shouting the most sophisticated and insane insults that he had ever heard ('You chloroplast-less euglena' being the most understandable one). Nor was he surprised by the fact, that the older Holmes tried to beat his brother with an umbrella (albeit unsuccessfully) while Sherlock attacked with a biscuits in his hand.

What did surprise him, however, was John Watson, usually the peacemaker and (however ironically that sounds!) voice of reason between those two. He just stood in the kitchen, cup of tea in his hand, small smile tugged across his lips and expression... Yes. Dreamy was the right word, thought Lestrade, although he couldn't fathom what could be so lovely about fighting Holmses. Crazy, scary, frightening - that's more like it.

'Why are you not stopping them?' he asked, failing to notice that he himself was not even attempting to do so. 'What happened?'

'Usually I'd stop them' answered John, this puppy-in-love look still on his face. 'But this time they are fighting over ME'

'I see' lied Lestrade; he was trying his best not to 'see' as the dreamy expression on John's face, the fact that both of Holmeses were just in the underwear (if red G - string on Sherlock's part fell under that category), and three plates with breakfast were not very promising.

Lestrade just didn't want to know, although those gays... GUYS were making it pretty hard.

* * *

><p>-<br>This fight started two hours ago, when Sherlock, hyper as always after sex, _bounced _around the flat, and up and the stairs, busy with being happy. It wasn't unusual, it wasn't dangerous (in this high-on-love state Sherlock didn't as much as think about any experiments)... unless you didn't step into his way. John was going to the bathroom, still in this sex-inducted haze, sleepy and wonderfully tired, when suddenly something hit him from behind, causing him to fall all the way down the stairs. This 'something' being, of course, Sherlock.

'Ohmygod' groaned John, his entire body hurting as if it was one, big broken bone - but the 'doctory' part of his brain laughed out loud at such assumption. Two Holmses were already hovering over him with most distraught looks at their faces. 'I'm okay, don't worry.'

'Well, I do worry. In fact...' said Mycroft carefully pulling John up, and leading him to a nearest armchair; not that John really needed it, but it was nice to get a bit pampered by both Holmses, who usually treated 'affection' as a close relative to 'infection' or even 'deadly illness'. '... I should just bend you, Sherlock, over my knee and give you a right spanking!'

"John almost died, and you talk about kinky sex?' asked Sherlock scandalised, and before John could cut in that he just fell down t_en friggin steps_not an Eiffel Tower, he continued. "I always knew you were just lusting for his body!"

"I was talking about spanking _you_" Mycroft couldn't resist pointing logical failures of Sherlock's reasoning. Not that it helped him get the point across. "And I was talking about punishing you as a child, because you _behave _like one. The fact, that I have to explain you this is enough…"

"Better behave like a child, than behave like… like… like YOU"

"Eloquent, Sherlock, you should be proud of yourself. I never knew toddlers had such a dictionary."

"God" muttered John, thinking both about how pathetic the entire conversation was, and that it will probably end with a wild sex on the floor (what he tried not to think about, was his aching back that would prevent him from actively participating). "Good thing you're not going to be there in the hospital"

It was a slip of the tongue, a stupid thought said aloud, but, of course, both Holmes brothers instantly caught on.

"What hospital? You are not ill, surely I'd notice" they exclaimed in perfect unison, forgetting even to glare at each other for stealing each other lines. John giggled nervously.

"Well, I'm neither a family member, nor spouse of any of you… So if I were in ICU, accidents happen, you know, you wouldn't be able to visit. What is " reflected John, so lost in his thoughts that he missed the completely horrified and baffled expressions on Mycroft and Sherlock's faces. "a very, very good thing, because you have this habit of trying to outshout each other over my almost dead body…"

"I'll marry you" blurted out Sherlock, snatching a lonely artificial tulip from a vase that stood nearby and offering it as seriously as if it was a bouquet of roses. "Think about taxes…"

"No, John. I will marry you. I'm wealthier, more reasonable, more romantic, more intelligent, gentler and I have better technique in lovemaking. It would be more logical to…" decreed Mycroft, taking the tulip from Sherlock's extended hand and offering it himself. The rest of his speech drowned in the sound of Sherlock's laughter.

"YOU? Better in bed? Please do not feed us yours delusions." Said he venomously, snatching the poor tulip back and hitting with it Mycroft straight in the face. "You're FAT like a butyric acid!"

And so it started.

* * *

><p>After Lestrade fled, leaving the evidence on the table, Holmses made a truce (it was forced by their sore, hoarse after two hours of shouting, throats) and before this crazy marriage idea could be properly discussed (he felt nauseous just thinking about that conversation) John escaped to work. Oh, while he walked undisturbed, without any insane geniuses with temper tantrums or control kink, he just cherished the anticipation of listening to old ladies that smelled of cats and cying children with their hysterical mothers… Or those hypochondriacs, that always knew better… Yes, he almost danced from the sheer joy at normal, calm and undisturbed life.<p>

His happiness didn't last long, as in the door to the practice he was greeted with scowling Sarah, who wielded the biggest basket of red roses he had ever seen.

"Could you please tell you f_latmate_not to send those things to your work?" she snapped, throwing the bouquet into hands of dumbfounded John. "In case he didn't notice, we actually have allergic patients here! A child almost suffocated because of THIS THING!"

Just as John thought it couldn't get much worse, he was proven wrong when even bigger basket, hell, a barrel of roses and orchids was delivered by one of Mycorft's agents. Sarah just narrowed her eyes, this time, a small smile tugging her lips.

"I really don't want to know what part of your body he cut off for experiments, so now he feels obliged to sent you those flowers" she said while throwing the bouquet away.

Then, if it wasn't enough for one day, there was a lunch delivered by Angelo himself. Candles, valentine tablecloth in hearts, confetti and a scary a-capella rendition of "Bella Notte" included. After Angelo left (after a loud applause from a few elderly ladies with hearing issues), John had to patch up one of Mycroft's men, who was found beaten (with his own silver tray with lunch) near the GP's door. Well, at least it explained the black eye on Angelo's face.

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><p>"Darling, I'm home… God." John started thinking that the hit on his head was more serious than he believed, because he was clearly hallucinating. The flat, usually ornamented with books, spare body parts, scraps of paper, half-eaten sandwiches, Sherlock, bottles of chemicals, ropes and unidentified lying objects, was now… disgustingly <em>clean<em>.

Sherlock, dressed in a pink 'kiss the cook' apron thrown over purple shit and tight jeans that John loved and approved, stood proudly in the middle of the room, offering baffled doctor a steaming cup of tea.

"Tea, sweetheart?" he asked, forcing the cup in doctor's hands while removing from him the briefcase. "How was your day?"

"You murdered someone" stated John when the ability to speak returned from where it run to after being confronted with… this. "You murdered someone and you want me to help you hide the body."

"Don't be ridiculous, Stud Muffin!" even those words lacked the usual spite. "If I murdered someone, I wouldn't need your help with covering it up, really."

"I cannot imagine the atrocity you committed, then."

"Oh sugar-pie!" squeaked Sherlock, a little offended. "I tidied up a bit, you are always complaining about the mesa and…Voila! You see, I care about your wellbeing. Did you enjoy your lunch?"

John set aside the cup, and pressed the bridge of his nose, feeling the headache coming any minute now. A part of his brain in charge of reason and common sense was in euphoria inducted by the order in the flat, while the rest of it hid in far corner, crying and cutting itself like a right emo, just trying hard NOT to THNIK about things that caused Sherlock to reboot with 'Stepford wife' setting.

"Is it about the marriage thing?" asked he suddenly, in a stroke of genius, remembering morning discussion. Sherlock scowled lightly, before schooling his features into that calm, sheepish half-smile of a wife from 60's commercials.

"Just choose me, Sugar John-Won! I'm a dozen times better, nicer, more forthcoming! I tidied up! I threw away all my experiments from the fridge! I took those kidneys from the bath back to Bart's! I even tried to make muffins…"

Ah. So that was the reason the flat smelled of burning, then.

"Sherlock, we're not getting married" interrupted John, cupping detective's face, his hidden Jedi instincts screaming something about having a bad feeling about this. "I'm not choosing between the two of you. Never."

However improbable it was, he loved both Holmses equally. Calm, cool, collected but secretly affectionate Mycroft, who was always willing to listen, had endless patience and despite running Britain could come late at night to John, just to tuck him in, give him a light kiss on the forehead and wish 'good night'… and wild, changeable, passionate, unpredictable and sarcastic Sherlock, who had a thing for drama and made the theatre out of their lives. Choosing between them would be like choosing between Vermeer's painting and a horse riding… it just didn't make sense, really.

He pulled Sherlock's face down a little, raising his own head to kiss the detective and reassure him, but taller man just jumped back, as if the lone thought of kissing John burned like acid.

"You will just choose Mycroft, then. I did something _wrong_, probably" if the doctor wasn't so tuned to Sherlock's moods he might have missed the desperation, raw hurt that hid under those lines, delivered with a nonchalance and a dismissive wave of a hand. John wanted nothing more than to beat or kiss some sense into that thick skull of Sherlock's, but before he could think of something r_ight _to say…

Sherlock fled from the flat, the door slamming behind him, coat and scarf forgotten, still in the apron. John could run after him, probably.

Instead he just turned on the TV.

It was much less surprising than it should that the BBC schedule was changed today, and it consisted mostly of John's favourite programmes and TV series.

* * *

><p>The majority of people would consider this… arrangement extremely wrong and disturbing; it was however undisputable, that both Mycroft and Sherlock were as far from 'majority' as they could. Besides, they didn't really think of each other as brothers – a year before little Sherlock was born, Mycroft started attending one of the most elitist boarding schools in England, so when the youngest offspring of Holmes family was delivered to this world and started growing up, his older brother was just a vague shadowy figure that came home on Christmas, and , from Mummy said, was absolutely perfect, unlike naughty, overactive Sherlock.<p>

Then Sherlock became a troublemaking teenager, then – a young man, and the older, wiser, nicer and _better_brother he loathed with all his heart suddenly was the only person in entire world that could understand the boredom, the constant need of stimuli and disgust felt for ordinary life…. And vice versa. While Mycroft learned how to deceive others, he always knew that his dear brother will always see right through him, see the distaste, boredom and weariness that came with pretending to be a normal, pleasant gentleman. They neither trusted nor confided in anyone else, just each other.

It wasn't really surprising, then, that one night they found themselves in a bed, entwined together, hating and loving each other at the same time. It was just another logical step.

When John appeared in Sherlock's life and almost momentary was invited on a (_sacred_ in detective's mind) crime scene, Mycroft was furious, at first. How could Sherlock open up to a complete stranger, person so… pedestrian, common, abnormally average even? The army records were interesting, of course, so were the documents about Watson's involvement with MI6 ops… but it was nothing too unusual. But then came the meeting in the warehouse, doctor shoot the cabbie, Sherlock started eating, smiling and _caring_… No, there was more to John Watson than it appeared. He was usually dull and normal, but sometimes one could get a glimpse of the dark and half -crazed depths of John's soul.

It was intoxicating. HE was intoxicating; good, caring and lovable natural born killer, who cherished the danger and loved the normalcy. Perfect, and fit perfectly into the lives of both Holmses, becoming a part of them without even trying. This three-some, three-way relationship was something they all liked – it gave them freedom, independence, support and that_danger_which came with this abnormity.

But now it was the only reason Sherlock and Mycroft sat at the table in older Holmes's house, trying to win the silent battle of stares.

"You, my dear brother, are overreacting, I assure you. Nothing will change after the ceremony, except for the official documentation" stated finally Mycroft, not really believing in the things he said, just filling the silence with words.

"So let me have him, then" spat Sherlock, glad that this silence was finally broken. "It will be easier, everybody is already assuming we're a couple. There also won't be any trouble with accommodation, because if you'd be his partner it would be expected that John should live with you. Surely…"

"Since when you worry about expectations?"

"Since … ten minutes. Do not change topic, I am not the Prime Minister you can manipulate"

"Of course you're not, I had to throw him out when you invaded my office" Mycroft folded his arms, frowning in disapproval. "Was it really necessary to wave around this katana?"

"Oh, so you're worried about katana but not about the kitten?"

"Ah, yes, the kitten. It was unnecessary to throw the poor creature on Prime Minister's head, really. If he had an allergic reaction?"

"You actually care about this idiot's well - being?" asked Sherlock, truly surprised. Mycroft snorted in amusement.

"I was talking about cat." They both flashed identical, scary and predatory grins that could cause psychosis and/or hysterics of people with nerves of anything but steel. "I love you early, Sherlock and I trust you with international affairs, but once again you prove to me you can't be trusted with a living being."

"Oh, we'll see about that." Sherlock smiled a little wider. "You might change BBC schedule, but I can…"

"You can?" asked Mycroft, after waiting for a minute for his brother to continue. Sherlock huffed I annoyance, thinking intensively.

"I can BUY MILK" he said at last, standing up with a dramatic wave of the hand. He bend over the table and kissed Mycroft hungrily. "John will be MINE."

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><p>As much as mind-blowing and earth- shattering their sex was, it was also extremely dangerous (just like almost everything connected with Holmes brothers). Why? Well, throw into one box (or a bed) three strong, confident and fit (despite Sherlock's taunts, Mycroft was rather well-built) alpha males… Yes, as you might imagine those little 'fights' to establish who's on top, and who's getting hammered into the mattress ended with after-orgasmic bliss as often as with accidentally caused nosebleed or (although it was only once) broken fingers.<p>

So when John came back from work that day (despite himself glad that all the streetlight on the way home were green)just to find Sherlock sprawled sexily on the scarily clean table, completely naked and already prepared… He become more wary than aroused (and considering the growing bulge in his pants that was one hell of wariness!)

"If you think that by getting laid on the table you're consuming our future marriage, you are mistaken. Very mistaken. And before you say anything, I'm not marrying Mycroft either. I lo… Oh God" moaned John, the rest of his well – considered speech forgotten, as Sherlock, who slipped down from a table just after doctor's 'if' and worked on undoing his pants, finally succeeded. "Bed. Now."

"Whatever you wish" hissed Sherlock, pressing himself over John. "Just as you wish, when you wish, John. I'm yours… all yours."

"Aw hell" whimpered John. "Why did I make you throw those handcuffs away…"

* * *

><p>Seven hours later John was snatched by older Holmes's agents to his estate. Mycroft, of course, had the handcuffs.<p>

* * *

><p>"You know, Greg, I have a friend" said John Watson tentatively, slipping his beer and trying hard to avoid looking at his companion. They sat in a pub, drinking, talking about rugby, top models and about not talking of Sherlock. "And he asked me for advice… but I don't know what to tell him."<p>

"Go on" muttered Lestrade, finishing his pint in one gulp and ordering another. He didn't think he could survive this while being sober.

"He is in love with two beautiful, nice and intelligent girls. And they love him, as much as they love each other…" After second thought, Lestrade ordered whiskey. Definitely needed something stronger. "… but now they have this stupid notion that he has to marry one of them. And instead of treating it like a social necessity, they made a contest out of it! I mean really, they just jump at each other throats. And at me, him, I mean, I never knew … HE never knew they were so… dirty minded and perverted. They for example…"

One look at slightly green face of the Inspector stopped any urges to present examples. Lestrade, who always valued prevention over suffering consequences, ordered a whole bottle of whiskey, promising himself not to picture anything John told him about.

"Never mind. But it was fun, for the first five minutes, but now it's just crazy. One buys chocolates, other brings a chocolate cake. Then first one throws the cake in second's face, leaves for five minutes and comes back with an armful of his favorite movies and some popcorn, so the other destroys the DVD player in some strange super-spy technique, and after one call takes him to the cinema on special private screenings of these movies… that gets interrupted by the first one doing striptease in front of the screen. And then there was this tango…"

"First piece of advice" said Lestrade, gesturing with an empty glass. This not-picturing policy failed him miserably. "Tell your friend to skip the details, okay?"

"Okay. So… What do I do? I mean, what do I tell him to do? He doesn't want to marry one of them, he's perfectly well with both. But the way things are going, choosing one will result in losing another, and prolonging this will not only drive me mad, but also made them kill each other. Slowly, painfully and in the most sophisticated ways that we won't even find the bodies. What do I do?"

John looked so miserable, hurt and at the edge of tears that Lestrade considered hugging him in one of the rare fits of most masculine and macho form of affection, but one look around prevented him from doing so. He didn't really fancy getting killed by the homeless psycho, who eyed him warily from his post neat the door, a big, pointy stick in his hand (Sherlock's friends were nothing but subtle), or by those two orangutans in suits, who sat at the back table and glared at him angrily. To be perfectly honest, the bartender also looked suspiciously. Lestrade set his drink aside, just to be on the safe side.

"John. I don't know much about those situations. Hell, my wife dragged me to the altar almost by my hair, I was just too preoccupied with some bloody murders at the time to care. Good thing, she did. But… Just listen to yourself. If you can't marry one, and can't _not_marry…"

"Greg? You're a genius. You're a bloody, wonderful, amazing, astonishing, incredible genius. I just love you!" John brightened up suddenly, threw himself at the unsuspecting Inspector, hugged the hell out of him, and still in that scarily cheerful state that had much to do with those pints of beer consumed, left in happy little skips, like overly excited teenage girl.

Leaving Lestrade with a bar full of Sherlock and Mycroft's agents, who were less than happy to see anyone being hugged by the untouchable John H. Watson. But Lestrade was a brave man… He just left with as much dignity as he could muster, and started running only after closing the pub's door.

* * *

><p>"I do not understand" said Sherlock, looking around the restaurant and avoiding his brother's eyes. "He told me we'll be alone here."<p>

Mycroft raised elegantly one of his brows, not even bothering with exclaiming that it was the exact same thing John told him, settling instead on short:

"A least you could enjoy your meal. The _coq au vin_is most wonderful here."

"If he thought he could reconcile us by granting a nice, romantic setting and good food… Well, he'd be right in _your _case. Not mine, though."

"Sherlock, please, we do not need reconciling, because we never fell apart. It's just some … unhealthy sibling's rivalry" Mycroft leaned across the table, almost knocking down the glass of water in sudden clumsiness; he was agitated, then, maybe a little unsure of the words he had spoken, deduced Sherlock, unusually good at reading his brother's supposedly nonexistent emotions. He looked around at those mindless little people who sat at the tables all around him, busy as little ants, talking, eating, laughing… not thinking, though. Not _observing_. Dull. He looked at Mycroft, the question whether he really wasn't mad, wasn't jealous about John and Sherlock's attention lingered on his toungue.

"Do you think we should tell the waiter about her husband?" he said instead, taking a sip of water, trying not to cause a scene. Mycroft tapped his fingers impatiently.

"No, I don't think it will be appreciated… Especially if the lover is his best friend, Rick."

"Richard. He prefers Richard, I'd say"

"And he likes horses"

"That's how they met"

"When they were seven"

"Near Aberdeen" finished Sherlock, smiling at Mycroft, who gave a small grin in return. And suddenly he felt it again, the whole _attraction _to power and intelligence, to someone exactly like him and yet completely different. Mycroft licked his lips, approvingly, of course knowing what went through Sherlock's mind.

"I see you didn't kill each other" said John, dressed in his dress uniform what gave the Holmes brothers goose bumps and sent a wave of heat down their spines… and planting several rather naughty ideas in their heads. Former army doctor sat down gracefully. "Sorry for being late, but I had a few errands to run…"

"You lied to me" Sherlock suddenly remembered that smiling like an idiot is not a proper behavior for a mysterious, dark and genius detective; sulking, on the other hand, was more that acceptable. Mycroft, what was a bit scary, approved this statement with a meaningful nod and glare in John's direction, his entire demeanor so eerie, that the waiter who came up with their appetizers almost dropped the tray. John just smiled, unfazed.

"Oh, I didn't lie… I just substituted truth with more fitting facts" he chuckled, seeing two almost identical scowls. "Holmes-talk is not so funny when it's aimed at you is it? Never mind that, I brought you two… something."

His face suddenly flushed with embarrassment, and h averted his gaze trying not to look at Holmses as he handed them two flat packages roughly A4 sized, wrapped in flowery paper. Brothers looked at each other (after they managed to tear their eyes from distraught John, who was just too damned cute and sexy in his uniform, cheeks blushed), zillion possibilities, questions and answers running through their minds as they simultaneously started to rip the paper. Would they finally know which one would get the ultimate prize?

"John…" whispered Mycroft, as he shuffled through the papers, checking with the corner of his eye if Sherlock had gotten the same thing. The detective just stared at the sheets, unblinking. John gave a nervous laugh, seeing the obvious distress on Holmses' part.

"Well, I just thought I couldn't officially form a partnership with the two of you… nor could I choose between you. So this was the only option, right? I mean… Those are official papers so that the both of you will be able to decide for me in case of medical emergencies, and there's one that gives you access to my bank accounts, and that one…" rambled on John, and both Mycroft and Sherlock (who of course knew this already) couldn't concentrate on anything he had to say, putting on the uniform was a rare occurrence, so they had to cherish every moment in fullest. "And that is a copy of my will, You two get to share it with Harry, of course, but each gets one third and it's all I could think of that would change if I married the two of you… So…I wanted to ask… "

"John. You amaze me, dearest" said Mycroft softly, bringing doctor's hand to his lips and planting a light kiss on his knuckles, while Sherlock wiggled in his seat impatiently and muttered "Just say I, already!"

"Would the two of you marry me, if it was possible?" said he finally, placing three heart – shaped boxes on the table. "If yes... Just take the ring. If not… Listen, I know that the two of you have something… better than with me, and I accept this, I'm just a third wheel here, one that is good laugh sometimes though, and I'll understand it…"

"Just shut up" said Sherlock, throwing himself over the table and planting a honest, deep kiss on John's mouth (earning several stern exclamations of disapproval from the guests, which quickly drowned in loud ovations from Mycroft and Sherlock's little helpers), while Mycroft, more subtly, just slipped the one of three rings on John's finger, kissing hard the back of his hand.

The world couldn't get any more perfect, they all thought, surprisingly, at the same time.

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><p>AN: Please review? (hides in the corner)


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